“Go to it, then.” Hugh closed the door, but not before James shook his head reprovingly at him.
“Very good,” his captive said as Hugh glanced at her. Then, “Shoot the bolt.”
“I’d be glad to, but as you see I’m slightly encumbered.”
He held up the bottle of brandy with the single glass James had provided turned upside down on top of it.
“I’ll hold it.”
Watching him as though she expected him to jump her at any moment, she unwrapped her left hand from its death grip on the pistol and reached toward him. Smiling faintly, he handed over the bottle and turned back to bolt the door. That done, he glanced at her.
“What now, oh powerful one?”
She chewed her lower lip, looking indecisive and also, Hugh decided unwillingly, quite delectable. Her brow was furrowed; her golden eyes were clouded with worry. Her drying hair was as black as soot and, now free of whatever pins might once have confined it, waved luxuriantly over her shoulders and down her back almost to her waist. Every delectable curve and hollow of her body was outlined faithfully by her soaked dress. Her nipples still poked pertly against the wet wool that clung to her breasts.
Just looking at them—at her—made his loins tighten. Gad, she was a beauty! And young—she could not be as young as she appeared. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her age, but he stopped himself. He didn’t really want to know—and she would probably lie anyway, just like she lied about everything else. Deliberately he thought of Lord Archer. No doubt the doddering old fool had been in alt to find such a nonpareil in his bed. How the man had allowed himself to be relieved of papers vital to his country’s security by a tart was readily explained now that Hugh had taken the full measure of the tart in question. The old man almost had to be forgiven for the lapse. It would take a bloodless eunuch to resist an armful like this chit—or, he added hastily, a man with his own iron will.
He hoped.
“I want you to turn that chair to face the wall and sit down.”
Her voice was coolly authoritative. It was obvious that she enjoyed having the upper hand. Fortunately, the image of poor hoodwinked Archer had cleared Hugh’s mind. He himself at least had the advantage of knowing her for the treacherous vixen she was, Hugh thought, moving in the direction she indicated, and never mind what she looked like. Had he not known—and this was a thought he didn’t much like, and certainly didn’t mean to dwell on—he might well have made as big a fool of himself over her as Archer had done.
But forewarned was forearmed, as they said.
She stood watching him from the other side of the table as he obediently turned the chair around and took a seat facing the wall. His knife—she had placed it on the table earlier after relieving him of it in one of the more memorable moments he had experienced lately—was in her hand, obviously to keep it out of his reach. She was holding it somewhat awkwardly, as if unable to think of what to do with it. Her other hand was wrapped around the pistol grip. Held like that, the weapon looked too heavy for her. She seemed to be having trouble keeping it level. Fleetingly he hoped she would not pull the trigger by accident, then dismissed the possibility from his mind as something he couldn’t control and thus couldn’t worry about.
His glance shifted to the table. She had set the brandy down in the spot where his knife had rested moments before. The amber liquid sloshed invitingly against the thick glass bottle as the ship rocked back and forth like a baby’s cradle. Its color as the lamplight struck it reminded him of her eyes: warmly golden and rich with the promise of all manner of sensory delights.
Vis-à-vis sensory delights, the hand that had slid around his waist in search of his knife was small and cold; it should not have awakened in him an urgent desire to wrap his fingers around it and lead it in a more intimate direction—but it had.
“You may pour me a splash of brandy.”
Her command was a welcome interruption from a sudden surge of erotic images that, try as he might, he could not banish. Registering what she had actually said took a second or two, but when he did Hugh’s brows rose. Ladies did not drink brandy—but of course, she was no lady. It was an indication of how well she played the part that he was even momentarily surprised when she stepped out of her assumed role.
“Just a splash?” he asked.
If there was the slightest satirical edge to his voice, it was directed at himself because, however improbable he would previously have thought it, he was proving to be as vulnerable as the next man to the distracting effect of a beautiful woman.
“My throat is dry.” There was a certain defensiveness to her tone.
“If so, it must be just about the only part of you that is.” He kept his voice deliberately light as he unstoppered the bottle and poured the requested amount into the glass. Glancing up, he encountered the black hole of the pistol’s mouth regarding him unblinkingly. Despite the fact that she was a young and beautiful woman, with a sweetly feminine air she seemed able to project and then drop at will, he would be a fool to doubt that she would shoot him if and when it suited her. “There are clothes you can use in the saddlebags in that cupboard. No female garments, I’m afraid, but at least the things are dry.”
He indicated the bulkhead with a nod as he pushed the glass toward her. She glanced in that direction, the merest slanting away of her eyes before her gaze darted back to fix on him with suspicion. That she found the notion of getting out of her sodden garments appealing was clear from her expression.
Persuading her to remove her garments voluntarily suited his purpose much better than forcing her to strip. Wasn’t there some saying about catching more flies with honey . . . ?
“There are wool stockings,” he said by way of tempting her. “As well as a shirt and breeches. And, I believe, a towel.”
The items mentioned all belonged to James, who had been much more careful of his clothes during their journey than Hugh had been. About all he himself had left that was clean and dry was, if he was lucky, a change of linen.
“I should think you’d want me to be uncomfortable.”
As she spoke she picked up the brandy he had poured for her. For a moment she swirled it around in the glass, looking at it as if wondering if it had been doctored in some nefarious way. Then she raised it to her nose, sniffed suspiciously, and drank.
Seconds later, she coughed, grimaced, and gave a delicate little burp. Clapping a hand to her mouth, her eyes flew to his face. Her look of embarrassment was, he judged, very well done indeed.
“Not particularly,” he said, refusing to admit even to himself that he’d found her reaction to the brandy charming. “What I want from you are the letters you stole from Lord Archer, along with the name of whoever set you on to do it, the name of the man you were to hand the letters over to once you reached France, and the names of anyone else who helped you along the way. Once you give them to me, I’ll be pleased to speed you on your way.”
If he was not being precisely truthful about that last part, at least she had no way of knowing it.
She eyed him coldly. “Clearly you’re sadly lacking in either wits or the ability to hear. I repeat: I know nothing of your letters, or any of the rest of it.” Then, in a warning tone, she added, “Don’t get up, or make any sudden moves.”
“I think we’ve already established that I won’t.”
His voice was dry. He hadn’t expected her to give him what he needed just for the asking, so her reply came as no surprise. Still, that she should continue the charade even now that, to all intents and purposes, she held the whip hand pricked at him like a tiny thorn embedded deep in a thick wool stocking.
Could she be telling the truth? For the merest instant, the possibility entered his head. He considered it, and ran aground on the sheer improbability of any woman besides the one he’d been sent to intercept being found on that particular remote beach in that barely populated area of Sussex Downs in the middle of that particular night.
The chances were so sl
im as to be not even worth calculating. But the fact that the notion had entered his head at all—now, that was disturbing. She was dangerous indeed if even he, who absolutely knew her for what she was, was at risk of falling victim to her lies.
Lady Claire Lynes, indeed. That was overreaching by half. But to choose that particular identity as her nom de guerre, so to speak—what did that signify? It must signify something. Like her presence on the beach, there was the tiniest possibility that her choice of a false identity might be mere coincidence, but he didn’t think so.
He was not a big believer in coincidence.
He looked at her thoughtfully, trying to work out the whole sorry mess in his mind. There were answers to his questions, and she had them. The key to getting what he wanted was to find out what she wanted, he mused, and dangle it as bait.
She was backing away from him toward the bulkhead, keeping her eyes—and the pistol—trained on him until she passed from his line of sight. Thoughtfully, then, Hugh surveyed the scene directly in front of his nose: the scarred paneling, softened to a surprisingly mellow hue by the shifting lamplight; three-quarters of the table, which was bare except for the brandy bottle and the glass she had drained; the round-faced clock in its shiny brass casing, bolted securely to the shelf above the table.
It was nigh on three in the morning, he registered as he looked at the clock and listened to its ticking along with the sound of the cupboard being opened behind him. A goodly number of hours remained until they reached their destination, he judged, even as a soft thump and a subsequent rustling told him she had found the saddlebags packed with gear. Then, from her, there was silence. Continuously creaking timbers and the rhythmic smack of waves against the hull joined with other background noises, making it difficult to guess what she was up to by listening alone.
“Don’t look around.”
This came as his head instinctively swung around to track her whereabouts.
“Why not?” Pseudo-innocent as soon as he realized that she was on the verge of changing, and totally unable to resist the impulse to tease her just a little despite everything he knew about her, he craned his neck as if to get a good view. Standing as she was just in front of the bunk now, with the cupboard door closed again and a fistful of James’s clothes in hand, she met his gaze like a startled deer. Then she glared at him.
“Because I said so,” she snapped, pointing the pistol at him menacingly.
“Ah, an excellent reason indeed.”
A glance from the clothes to her face to the pistol, and, well satisfied, he turned back to stare at the wall.
Smiling to himself, careful not to let her see, he settled back in his uncomfortable chair, his gaze apparently fixed firmly on the wall in front of him, and did his best to ignore his ribs’ retaliation for his less than judicious move. The brandy waited on the table near his elbow. He reached for the bottle and glass, congratulating himself as he did so on his cleverness in recognizing that there was more than one way to skin this particular cat.
“What are you doing?” She sounded almost panicked as he moved again.
“I thought I would pour myself some brandy. Have you any objection?”
He deliberately didn’t look around at her. He didn’t want to alarm her—not when things were going so nearly his way.
She made a sound that he took for permission to drink. Pouring himself a glass, he took a mouthful, savoring the brandy’s spicy scent and the full-bodied strength of the liquid on his tongue with real appreciation. He felt even greater appreciation for the clock’s shiny brass surface, he mused as he swallowed. It showed him her reflection as clearly as a mirror, only in miniature and tinted a warm golden hue.
A moment later, he watched with interest as, with both hands twisted up behind her back, she struggled to undo the buttons that still remained to be unfastened on her gown. She had already freed the ones that were easy to reach and was having to make quite a stretch. Looking beyond her, he located his pistol, lying a quick grab away from her on the bunk. The knife was beside it, as were James’s clothes in a haphazard bundle. If he’d felt the need, he was confident he could have gotten to her before she could grab either weapon.
But then, the hand he’d been dealt was promising, and besides, if he moved he would miss the delectable prospect of watching as she stripped herself naked before his wary but still appreciative eyes.
10
When Claire finally got the last button undone, she sighed with relief. With a quick glance at Hugh, whose head was tilted slightly back as he tipped brandy down his throat but who still sat in the chair as she had ordered with his back stolidly turned, she freed her arms from the wet kerseymere and then, with another lightning glance at Hugh, pushed the frock down her body and stepped out of it.
The ship heeled, the movement more noticeable than anything that had gone before. Her stomach heeled with it, threatening all manner of dire consequences if the motion continued unabated. Helpless to prevent it, she tottered sideways before fetching up against the bunk and regaining her balance, then swallowed twice in quick succession in an attempt to quell her increasingly rebellious stomach. Except for the rising nausea that she was determined to ignore, she could not help but regard the sudden sharp rocking as a possibly hopeful sign. Was her ruse working? Was the ship indeed turning around?
“How will we know if your orders are being carried out?”
It occurred to her that, sealed off from the sight of the sky and the sea and all natural signs as they were, it was impossible to be sure which way the ship was heading.
“Your orders, you mean?” There was a slightly ironic note to his voice.
“All right, my orders. How will we know if the ship is turning back to England?”
“Doubtless we’ll find out when we disembark.”
Claire made an irritated sound under her breath. He was being deliberately unhelpful, she knew.
“Before that.”
He shrugged a little. “When James returns—and he will return—you are certainly welcome to ask him.”
Claire glowered at him—of course, with his back turned, he couldn’t see—then gave it up. Whether they were turning around or whether they weren’t, there was nothing more she could do about it at present. She might as well concentrate on getting herself warm and dry.
Ironically enough, now that she was free of her soaked dress she was suddenly freezing. Goose bumps raced up and down her bare arms and shivers once again shook her. If she had been forced to wear the drenched garments much longer, she might have found herself victim to an inflammation of the lungs or some other such serious ailment, she reflected. Which, of course, would be a problem only if she got out of this nightmare alive.
“You know, I’ve been thinking: Perhaps we can strike a bargain, you and I,” Hugh said out of nowhere, causing her to jump. Her gaze flew to him. Thank goodness, he didn’t appear to have moved. Wearing nothing but her corset and thin shift topped by a single sodden muslin petticoat, she was next door to naked. She’d been struggling with the strings of her corset, which, wet, had worked themselves into a maddening knot, and in her consternation at the unexpected interruption she had lost the end she’d been tugging at.
“What are you talking about?” she asked crossly, keeping her gaze fixed on him this time as she returned to her battle with the recalcitrant corset strings.
“I’m assuming you’re being paid for the letters. Instead of betraying your country—you are aware that’s what you’re doing, aren’t you?—why not let me buy them from you? I’m prepared to match any offer that’s been made to you.”
Having finally gotten the knot untangled, Claire was wriggling out of the corset when exactly what he was accusing her of struck her.
“You think I’m a traitor?” she gasped, as the corset joined her gown at her feet. “That’s a horrible thing to say!”
“It’s a horrible thing to do.” His voice was matter-of-fact. She couldn’t read his expression, but she realized f
rom his tone that he truly believed what he was saying. Brows snapping together, she glared at the back of his head.
“You’re as thick as a plank, aren’t you?” she said with disgust. “Will nothing convince you that I’m not who you think I am? Let me explain the situation to you one more time: You have made a mistake. A mistake, understand? If you had the sense God granted a flea, you’d let me go and start looking for the real Miss Towbridge. She has your letters, you lummox, and I am not she!”
“Suppose I offered to double what you’re being paid?”
Claire stared disbelievingly at him. The thought of hurling something at his thick-skulled head occurred to her, but there was nothing except the pistol and the knife to hurl and she wasn’t about to put either of those within his reach if she could help it. The idea of possibly knocking some sense into him held a great deal of appeal, but then, she thought as she yanked the tapes of her petticoat loose, it probably wouldn’t work. Knocking sense into a block of wood was impossible. The only thing clobbering him would do was, possibly, make her feel better.
“Well?” he asked impatiently when she didn’t respond.
She gave him a fulminating look, which was once again wasted as he couldn’t see it—good thing, too, because she was down to her chemise, and the wet lawn was clinging to her breasts in an almost obscene fashion and was the next thing to transparent everywhere else—and took a deep breath.
“What on earth is in those letters, anyway?” she asked, exasperated. After making sure that he was showing no tendency to look around, she pulled the chemise over her head and dropped it to the floor. Naked and shivering, she cast him another wary look and reached for the towel. If she didn’t get warm soon, she suddenly thought, she might freeze to death.
“Is it possible you don’t know?” His voice was huskier than before, and again she glanced at him suspiciously. His gaze was still fixed on the wall, his back faced her foursquare and solid, and his right arm and hand, curled around the empty glass, rested on the table, just as it had the last time she had checked. Remembering the hot flare of desire she had seen in his eyes when he had looked at her earlier, she wondered with an unexpected little quickening of her own if the mere idea that she was disrobing behind him was enough to deepen his voice like that.
Irresistible Page 9
